


Ulchabháin

by Liondragon (Sameshima_Shuzumi)



Series: Cult of the Severed Cap [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: (for all the tags), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Ambiguous Necrophilia, Avengers: Infinity War Fix-It, Background Ethnic Tensions, Blood, Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, Chapter Opening Art, Death, Dubious Religious Practices, Ensemble Cast, F/M, FRIDAY is Irish, Fix-It, Gang Violence, Gen, Gunplay, Horror, Humor, Kid Fic, Menacing Putrescent Head, Mild Ableist Language, Minor Jane Foster/Thor, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Non-Graphic Violence, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peril, Religion, Steve Rogers is Different Now, Tags Contain Spoilers, Title Art, Wakanda in Space, War, but not really, gratuitous abuse of Irish mythology, kids in peril, poorly researched, spoopy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-29 22:24:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17816639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sameshima_Shuzumi/pseuds/Liondragon
Summary: "The Owls." Sequel toStiofán Dubh. The further attachments of Steve and his detached head.Or: I don't even go here anymore, but we fixed it anyway. You're welcome. (Tags may contain story spoilers.) More asides, less gore, plot optional; fifth chapter slated for the sex. Yes. The sex.





	1. Cinn Chait, or The Creak of a Rusty Gate in the Middle of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Bit more in endnotes.
> 
> Yep, new content. I realized that despite my distance from canon, I had to beat it to the punch.
> 
> This was originally meant for a larger cast, but I decided to reserve my faves in case of a Better Idea Later. If you're here for canon Defenders: not even trying. Have fun with it. (Spoil me! On a possibly related note, comments may contain spoilers.)
> 
> I do apologize about this getting frisky, since _Stiofán Dubh_ drew an aro following. (Hey y'all!) So I corraled the sexytimes into the fifth chapter. Check its chapter endnotes for a summary. It's basically what you think it is. Also I reined in the language flourishes. Somewhat. It was Major Fun, but exhausting to write. 
> 
> Once again I am blatantly snatching from other cultures. If you're looking for a touch more Gaelic authenticity and a stronger narrative, I am still reccing _Natalie Jones and the Stone Knight_. And it's largely gen. 
> 
> Except for the fifth chapter, this fic is rated Blood Orange. XD XD XD
> 
>   
>   
>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The general idea about solving the whole Registration/Index comes from a fellow AO3 writer who wrote an F/M/M Marvel universe fusion of over 200K words. I am obviously trying not to spoil but it's epic, comment at me for rec. I had a similar idea pre-Marvel, back in SGA, but I can't remember if I ever posted it. 
> 
>  
> 
> The "Wakandan" term below is apparently Xhosa, and since T'Chaka's actor is Xhosa, I used that instead of the COLONIZER WORD. (Just try finding original terms. Dare it. [Erases rant about lack of basic information available to laymen.])
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, if anyone can expand or clarify, I'd be awfully appreciative. (I am just having fun here, okay.) 

One would think the separation of the seminal Captain America's head from his serum-enhanced body would result in a universe off-kilter.

The truth was that universes wobbled off their axes all on their own. In this particular one, Hell's Kitchen lagged some years behind because someone didn't have Netflix. Mostly, the combination of (The) Spiderman and destructive aliens had rolled back the reach of criminal organizations, and the distaste for, oh, Nazi-wannabes had stunted _their_ fundraising drives. And possibly their lives.

Also there had been a spate of mysterious demises. Heart problems. A veritable legion. All the cardiologists of _those_ exclusive private clinics had no idea what to make of it. One of them quit their lucrative practice entirely to join Médicins Sans Frontières. Tony Stark was working as quickly as he could with Stark Industries' medical division, he swore. He was also sweating, a little.

But geography and the history that's bellyflopped atop it are hard to turn around. Eventually a universe bracelet-slaps back into old, ugly patterns.

Also, rumor was that Spiderman was in university now. With a double major and two-and-a-half jobs.

So as it happened, Matt Murdock was early in his costumed angsting career. He'd interrupted his initial stint at superheroics to complete some legal specializations, and possibly receive advanced tutelage in superheroic textiles, and maybe pay off his student debts. The legal career was likewise gaining a bit of traction.

Matt's friendship with Foggy Nelson was also trundling along, as he had haplessly outed himself when he'd gone to the moon to register his superhero identity during Groot's annual visit. The latter who still refused to set root on Earth. 

Honestly the only reason Groot showed up at all was because they'd managed to transplant the Avengers' vaunted dracaena onto the lunar surface, where it resided in a place of honor in the main Wakandan lunar uronta. No one else could confirm that the dracaena was the conversationalist of lore, and Groot wasn't telling. Which was the point. The annual registration jamboree had gone a long way to settle the nerves—ethereal or otherwise—of the souped-up human population. (Shuri had transformed it with hot beats and mixed drinks, as it was easier to party behind one's brother's back when you weren't on the same planet.) Groot's complex language remained untranslatable to all but Thor; these days the Asgardian exercised a measure of discretion. He was, after all, in charge of the kegs.

Given these heights of secrecy, it took another five months before Foggy found out that Matt's alter-ego went by "Daredevil." At which point he sprayed his cola laughing. Also the horns. Foggy would never be over the horns.

So on this particular night, Foggy was up late knowing full well that Matt was out angsting in the darkness. He was alternating between legal briefs and Candy Crush Virtual World when Matt, sorry, _Daredevil_ tapped on the window frantically.

He was surprisingly unscathed. "You're surprisingly unsca—" began Foggy.

"I spotted some kids," Matt said hurriedly.

"Kids? Where?"

"I don't know!" Matt climbed in. He yanked off his cowl.

Foggy slammed the window down. "Did you lose them with your super senses?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes!" cried Matt. "What's the time?"

Time for angst, usually.

"Two twenty— oh. Shit. Kids? Not tiny people, or large cats standing up on their hind legs?"

Matt didn't even joke back. "Positive. They were launching paper airplanes off the warehouse on West 31st."

"Without a permit? For shame."

"I wasted fifteen minutes searching the block. They just... fell off the radar." Matt was not quite at his angsting limit, but it was getting close.

Foggy consulted his map app. "Is that... condemned and slated for demolition?"

"That's the one. Oh God, I shouldn't have lost them. Oh damn, I blasphemed. But, kids!"

"Did you find the paper airplanes?"

"Foggy!" said Matt. "Should we call it in?"

Oh. A lawyer question. They should've been able to handle that. There were two lawyers here. At least. "You could call anonymously."

"Remember Mahoney saying they treat those calls—"

"Like creepers. You'd have to explain why you were there."

"Yeah."

"And that you're blind."

"Oh yeah." Matt was pacing back and forth. Then he started stripping his costume. "Who's got the car, you or Karen?"

"Me, it's right outside," Foggy pointed out. Wow, Matt was really panicking. "I still don't know how you know they're not children of demons, or mole people. Androids! Cyborgs? No, cyborgs were last year." Still, he grabbed the keys. "Map app says we can get there in five minutes."

"I don't understand how they disappeared," Matt said. He grabbed a sweatshirt; it was bright pink. "Maybe it _is_ my senses."

"Two eyes are better than... zero?" Foggy grabbed their shoes. And snacks. "Is that insensitive?"

"Inaccurate, counselor. Should we bring a searchlight, or is that suspicious?"

"Yeah, two guys driving around a run-down neighborhood looking for kids. Not suspicious at all."

"They were little kids," said Matt with feeling. "If it had been a couple of teen—"

"Rapscallions? Scamps?"

"—sneaking out for the weekend, sure. These kids are out way past their bedtime."

Foggy locked the door and followed the taps of Matt's cane in the dark hallway. "Were they in distress? Like... you know."

"No. Regular heartbeats. A little fast, but that's normal for smaller kids."

That wasn't exactly reassuring.

*

They had no luck that night, or the next. Then hordes of footsoldiers attacked, and an ex-con got blackout drunk and woke up accused of a felony, and Nelson & Murdock couldn't go chasing after wayward children. They had accurate heights. Approximate weights. But nothing else on the physical description. They couldn't even find the paper airplanes. Foggy and Karen tested it out with a projectile fight in the office, wherein Matt scored a fourteen out of fourteen and a ruined shirt because the pencil sharpener popped open on impact.

Karen thought they were nuts.

Then Karen spotted the kids. 

They were walking along the busted up sidewalk, arms linked, in extremely dark clothing which honestly was a traffic accident waiting to happen. And they were small. They were ickle. Karen wasn't sure anyone said 'ickle' anymore, but they were. And it was one thirty in the morning on a Saturday night. It was too dark to see if they were sensibly dressed.

Karen was sensibly inside a motor vehicle, with a three-quarters full tank, headlights on, pepper spray and taser and seatbelt ripper at hand. She gaped as the kids — two boys? — boosted each other up a fire escape.

Were they going to do a break-in? It was a terrible thought to have. Karen couldn't think of a more plausible reason that anyone would let two tiny ickle kids stroll around in the middle of the night in New York City.

No, no. It seemed they were using the fire escape as a jumping off point to climb on top of a chainlink fence. Into an alley that she had no hope of fitting the car into.

Not many things flustered Karen Page to the point where she forgot how many cameras she had at hand. Less said the better, a shorter list was things which scared the crap out of her. But apparently she'd hit her limit with creepy children. She blamed her coworkers for priming her spine-tingling dread.

She remembered she also had a mobile phone at hand. She thumped speed-dial. "Guys!" She whispered wildly. "The tiny tots are here! Uh go around the block to the east side of that packing plant with the big mustache man logo — use your built-in GPS or something! If you go now, you can cut them off!"

Sadly Matt was in the middle of getting his ass kicked by line-dancing rejects. If there were sound effects for this scenario, surely a multinational production company could produce them. Fortunately for our heroes' wellbeing, this was happening around the block from the emergency room, and if Karen hadn't already figured either Foggy or Matt for vigilantes or FBI informants, she would've been truly flummoxed.

Unfortunately, it was Claire who picked up Foggy's phone.

"How many kids?!" She said, her voice rising.

"Um," said Karen. "Foggy said two. I'll drive around and see if I can intercept them. What's safer, a taxi or a MetroCard?"

She circled the dilapidated block, heart beating in her ribs. Honestly, she shouldn't have been so nervous. They were a couple of ickle tots. They were not creepypasta at all. Not in the least.

She was going to sensibly stay in the car, in case they were playing lures for something bigger and badder, when a bang echoed out of the alley. Scooping everything she had to hand, she rushed into the alley.

By the time she got to the other end of the alley, they were gone.

There were a couple of closed dumpsters, but they were full of trash. She considered using her seatbelt ripper to pick up the beverage containers on top, for DNA or psychic finding, then decided against the invasion of privacy.

*

By the light of day, all they could figure out was that the alley was really tidy, for a New York City alley.

"Maybe they... took out the trash?" Foggy said, scratching his head.

Matt, who was surreptitiously trying to lean on the brick wall instead of falling in one of the dumpsters, made a face.

Claire, who was still in her scrubs and wanted to get the fuck out of her scrubs, looked around. "I dunno, Murdock. Do you recognize the dumpster? You spend enough time in the trash."

Gravely, Matt said, "I do not."

"Don't spend all that time in the trash?" inquired Foggy.

"I don't recognize the dumpster, counsellor."

The alley was _really_ clean.

Karen almost called her new buddy Frank, she was that freaked out.

* * *

The next time the boys turned up was in the middle of a gang war. 

Apparently the Chinese and the Vietnamese mafia did not have an actual vendetta against Daredevil (not yet, anyway), and were instead being menaced by a roving posse of niúzai. Dudes with bandanas, wide-brimmed hats, and handtooled leather boots with spurs that hurt like hell. To save face, the crime families had to keep maximizing the damage, which often included Matt's face. It was an amazing time for calculating his health insurance premiums. Foggy might even get him to avail of it, this year.

Matt was beginning to suspect they had horses, too. Really small ones. They kept dropping their patties on drug shipments. It was a humiliating time to be in organized crime.

So Daredevil was in the middle of a three-way fracas in which almost all the streetlamps had been shot out by what might have been six-shooters. When the bullets ran out, the niúzai were dab hands at lassoing and creative knifing. Technically Daredevil should've had the advantage in the pitch dark. 

He was distracted. 

The kids were sitting on the swing set in the adjacent park. On top of the swing set. One boy had his leg wrapped around the swing chain, but otherwise they were perched freely eight feet off the recycled rubber mulch. Eating popcorn with roasted peanuts.

Matt got kicked in the chest.

Rolling a bit into the park, though unwilling to draw attention to them, Matt tried to wave them down. "Come on, Robin wannabes," he muttered.

A hat went flying, followed by a lot of screeched curses of the profane variety. One of the gang had found out that one of the niúzai was dating his sister. The older kid dropped his popcorn and clapped his hands over his little brother's ears.

"Yes, that's right, clear out before they use the really naughty words," Matt said, dragging himself across the grass to get back into the fight.

Then someone got their six shooter back, and someone got a properly illegal semi-automatic, and _bullets started flying_.

Abandoning all pretense, Matt turned tail and—

Found the playground empty.

"What the," said Matt, ducking whirling bolas. (Actually it was a particularly deadly bolo tie.)

He swore there had been a dropped box of Cracker Jacks. There was no trace of that, either.

*

Since Matt actually talked to homeless people like a superhero in the city, he decided to ask about the mysterious night owlets while he investigated the cowboys.

"Cowboys," they all said. "What the fuck."

There were many more expletives on the subject of the children. "You saw 'em? That means you're going to die!" exclaimed Michelle.

"He's blind, Shelly," said Olberto.

Michelle blinked. "Maybe he'll die on delay?"

One of the sullen street kids who were in the business of spitting at adults piped up. "They ain't fronting. You see them in the night, you're gonna die."

His friend snorted. "Stop watching those jump scares."

"I heard about it from my homes in Brooklyn. Late at night, you see two kids." He drew a finger across his throat. "Get the fuck out."

"Death is coming," Michelle nodded.

"Death should wear a condom," said Ladyday.

Matt was rather perplexed. "Has anyone actually seen—"

"No, fool," said the teens, nearly in chorus. Ladyday and Michelle made noises which clearly communicated what they thought of Matt's advanced degrees.

"Anyone who saw them is dead," explained Olberto patiently.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without having seen the Netflix Marvels, you can't tell me that makes less sense than a million ninjas.
> 
> *
> 
> Ceann cait means "cat's head", another name for the long-eared owl. Apparently they appear white at night, and brown by day. The adults sound as expected: ooo-oo. The juveniles squeak like a creaking old gate. In the desolate wilderness. Sample: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rd4RKwtFfc8 


	2. Téideach & Clonnach, or The Night No Cowboys Walked Into the Bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partial spoiler for a classic TV episode. Blink-and-miss spoiler for horror movie. Probably not under spoiler-protection anymore.

 

"I can't believe you got jumped by cowboys," said Foggy. "And not in the fun way."

"The syndicates don't want my help. They need help, though," said Matt, because he couldn't resist inserting a thorough crisis of conscience.

"Can we get to the part where we might die?" said Karen.

Claire lifted a shoulder. "I'm clear. I didn't see them. You guys were the ones trying to hunt them down."

"Technically I didn't see them. Only evidence of their existence," said Foggy.

"You and me, horny guy," said Karen, who liked to be ambiguous about what she knew, and when. "We're taking the down elevator."

Foggy just looked confused.

"That didn't make any sense," said Claire. She paused. "Besides, there can be angels in the middle of the night. Why would you assume they'd curse you to hellfire?"

"Tequila Fridays," chorused the law firm of Nelson & Murdock.

*

If Matt had reason to squint, it would be now. "Death," he repeated flatly.

"Not so loud now," said his client. Bun was from Cambodia, and was looking to be an informant. There was little advancement on that front, because he didn't trust cops. "Cowpokes you look out for? Call them Quick Hand."

Matt inclined his head towards Foggy, who was squinting. Enlightenment dawned. "Hand?" confirmed Matt. 

"Yes, Hand. Look for quick death. Sudden death. Power. Of Death." He leaned forward. "No more pine box. They keep come back, they like zombie on tv. No more red shirt."

"Red... shirt?" Matt was making the 'blind guy here' face to cover up his penchant for wearing red for his secret superhero gig.

"Ohhh," said Foggy. "Star Trek!"

Matt was chagrined.

"There another red shirt _you_ know?" Bun looked like he might have to water it down further for his audience. "No more _red shirt_. They think Triad have it. Bunch of killers, but, they know better than that. Cowpoke... they want keep on avenging."

Matt twitched. Foggy knew Matt would. Matt had Feelings about the Avengers. (Foggy had often wondered if he'd had some run-in on the moon.)

"There are," said Bun, "Scare movie." He snapped his fingers. "Omens! Black dog. Thick mist. Ghost childs. Hand think that theirs."

"And they think the Triad's holding out on them," said Matt.

"High noon all time! Big mess," Bun tutted. "Nobody boss of Death. Walk streets. Ride trains. Playing disc in park. Here in New York? You don't mess with New Yorker! Now that _crazy_. It's like City on Edge of Forever, ah. Your time is up, it's up! Ball drop. Blow out candle." He leaned back, and quite derisively opined, "Hand bunch cowpokes. People die, they want it or not."

*

Two little boys walked into Josie's Bar in the middle of the night.

The off-duty lawfirm of Nelson & Murdock was in the middle of syncing their phones on StarkPin to map out sightings of the creepy kids. They froze. Some more guiltily than others. Karen had been pushing the leads from Brooklyn which Claire had vaguely confirmed. Foggy had been looking through their legal options in case CPS had to handle super kids who might be pawns in a gang war. Matt had been pretending he wasn't angsting about killing enemies who might be resurrected later.

The tables had been flipped and stacked already, to preclude them getting flipped and kicked and smashed on people. The few occupied booths minded their own business, as usual at that time of night.

There was one patron at the bar. He'd been nursing his craft beers all night... presumably all too watered down to require cutting off. It was the depths of pathetic. He took one look at the kids, and fell all over himself to make an exit.

"Excuse me, sir?" the younger one piped up.

"You forgot your tip," said the older one, considerably more judgmentally.

Pathetic Guy gave them a wide berth, torn between not taking his eyes off them, and not making eye contact. He slapped half the contents of his wallet on the far end of the bar. Then had to walk an unsteady horseshoe around the boys... only to skitter back when Josie said she wouldn't take Diner's Club cards.

Foggy hissed, "That's them? Is that them?"

"It's them," said Karen. "They have really cute light-up sneakers."

They tilted their heads. Judgmentally. 

She bent forward for optimum whispering. "What! I really wanted a pair when I was a kid. Matt can't see them, I wanted to point that out."

Meanwhile the Josie was smirking down at the kids. "You gentlemen know I can't serve you, right?"

"We'd like a milkshake, please?" said the younger one. This was clearly a well-worn act. His sneakers were covered with permanent marker designs which smacked of troublemaking. Karen debated mentioning this to Matt, who had gone silent.

"Please?" echoed the older one. "We have a lot of money."

Josie widened at the wad of cash procured from the puffy jacket. 

Through his teeth, Foggy said, "Karen, see if there's a getaway car."

"For a reverse robbery?" She was looking anyway.

"No, for a responsible adult. Or an irresponsible adult! This is very set-up-like. Are you not getting how set-up-ish this is?"

Matt was frowning mightily.

"...we gave our water to this lady who _got lost_ ," said the older one, nodding a surreptitious eyebrow at his younger charge to signal the euphemism. 

Josie was speechless. She leaned in to whisper, "Where did you get all that money?"

They sighed. Too polite to outright roll their eyes. "We have this weird uncle who keeps giving us stuff."

Clearly moved by the tip she'd just rung up, she said as kindly as she could, "You know it's dangerous to walk around loaded like that."

The older one had a look that clearly said, 'Not kindly enough not to overcharge us for a milkshake.'

It was the younger one who added, "Extra for not calling authorities."

"Holy shit, here it comes," Foggy whispered. Loudly. He was vibrating off his seat.

"Hey, I'm not a babysitting service," Josie was saying.

"Lady, we're better behaved than most of your customers."

The remaining customers glanced away almost as quickly as they glanced up.

Josie was losing ground. She'd already glanced down at the glass door of the fridge, to check for milk. "You got a way out of here? I'm not taking you brats back to my place."

"Yup!" they said in unison. "Thank you for offering," chimed the younger one.

"See, that's creepy," said Karen. Half to justify the heebie-jeebies she was experiencing.

"I wasn't offering."

"We'll be out of your hair."

"We're really sorry to inconvenience you," said one of them. As he handed over the money.

"Don't worry about it."

The shameless eavesdroppers turned back to their drinks as one, even Matt who technically didn't need the front. The kids roved around the floor, sweeping trash over to the side with their spiffy shoes. They settled on a booth close to the bar.

"All I got is cream, and shaved ice..." Josie was slowly but surely falling for their charms.

"That's fine, thank you."

"You're welcome, cutiepie. Call me if you need anything. I'm Josie."

All of a sudden the kids tensed. (Matt sat up.) The requirements of basic courtesy seemed to war with the compulsion to dispense ominous warnings.

The older one went for directness. "You shouldn't give up your name to just anybody."

Josie actually laughed. "Kid, my name is in neon on the front window."

The kids, who had been nonplused so far, exchanged a loaded look. "Friendly suggestion," chirped the younger one. Who was definitely up to no good, look at that dimple.

"Did you hear that?" Foggy gabbled rhetorically. "'You shouldn't give up your name'! Isn't that some kind of supernatural warning?"

"Or it's an aphorism about identity theft, to take a shot at Josie for stating the obvious about flashing their benjamins. They were tens and twenties, Matt," she amended hastily. "No large bills."

Foggy did roll his eyes. "You don't believe that...!"

They watched as they broke out the sanitizing lotion and gave their palms a brisk rub. A good idea in a place like this, actually. And so typical that it was almost unnerving. The makeshift milkshake arrived, a chocolatey brown with extra whipped cream and a cherry on top. They thanked Josie, and pushed off their hoods.

Foggy and Karen fell silent. "What?" Matt whispered at last.

"They have blond hair," said Karen faintly.

"Children of the Corn blond!" Foggy flailed his hands under the table.

"Nah, there are some brown roots, there," said Karen. "No hair dye—"

"No, no hair dye," said Matt quickly.

"Not quite mullet, but no strands on their foreheads, a little past the earlobes on the sides. Smirky lips."

"Mischievous," agreed Foggy.

"Biased?" said Matt mildly.

"Not at all. Definite air of mischief," said Foggy.

"That's not what's in the air..." Matt began. He stopped. The kids were approaching their booth. Their light-up shoes cast cheerful shadows across the greasy floor. 

They made like middle schoolers and played it cool. The kids weren't old enough to know anything about middle school. They were adults, and not obvious at all.

"Hi," said the younger one. He had a mischievous milk mustache.

"Hello," said Karen. "What's your name?"

Matt was getting stiffer by the moment, as though he'd picked up an alert with his super-senses, or had caught someone insulting a nun.

The boys propped hands on hips, like they were Very Disappointed in these alleged grownups.

But they answered. There was a silence.

"Is that Irish?" Foggy blurted. "Um, Gaelic? Gaelic Irish?"

"How do you spell it?" Karen persisted.

Partly to waylay Karen, Matt ventured an pronunciation.

"Nah," said the older one. He looked more amused. "Your T's too hard. Tcheer-nee."

"And I'm **Kell** -ahk. If that's too hard, Kelly's fine. Is that a pun?" he prodded his brother.

"I think it's a homophone," he told his... brother. Had to be. Or a close cousin. "Don't. That's one of those bad jokes that aren't really jokes. It means 'same.'"

"Why's it mean 'same'? Uoooh," said Ceallach. Tiarnaigh looked relieved that he didn't have to spell it out.

"I don't think it's a homophone," said Karen. "Maybe a near-homophone." 

The boys looked suitably impressed. 

"Do you have business with us... Cheerknee and Kelly?" Foggy said in a mock-formal voice.

"If we can talk safely here," Tiarnaigh volleyed back.

"Cheerkneeeee," Ceallach giggled.

"Butt," said Tiarnaigh. "Not for us. For you."

Karen and Foggy exchanged crystal-clear 'Was THAT a threat?' looks.

Matt, however, seemed to understand. "The rest of the bar is giving you wide berth. If you have something to say, go ahead."

"Inside voices," Karen prompted.

Foggy shook his head at her; she shrugged at him.

There was a creak as Tiarnaigh's puffy jacket shifted up and down with a full-body sigh. "We're here to apologize."

The adults were floored. It was utterly incongruous... ah, not utterly. Maybe politeness was their superpower. 

"We're sorry—"

"—we distracted you and got you kicked in the nads," finished Ceallach.

"Corn. Flakes." Tiarnaigh grumbled. "You don't know what nads are." He rubbed across the top pockets of the jacket. "Not these. Down lower."

"Uoooh." Then Ceallach's face collapsed like a bad soufflé. "Euuugh. Owwie."

Foggy winced. "Matthew!" he whispered.

"Franklin! I'm sure this person wears a cup," Matt whispered back. 

Everyone winced. For different reasons. The boys for their warning gone unheeded... and the adults for realizing what had just happened. 

It was Foggy who twitched to attention. "How did you know he's... him?" And he jabbed a finger at Matt.

"Uoooh," said Karen.

Tiarnaigh clapped a hand over his brother's mouth. "Are you going to follow us home? Or do we have to get our weird uncle to pay you off?"

"Is this a Lemony Snicket thing?" Foggy asked.

Ceallach peeled the hand off with what might've been a spitwad. Apparently the dedication to hygiene only went so far. "Isn't this 'threatening', Teern? I thought we were apologizing."

"No," said Matt softly. "This would be blackmail."

He didn't look relieved that there might be a mundane, non-supernatural explanation for everything.

"Look, we know only the tree knows," said Tiarnaigh. "We are the last people ever to spill about something like that."

" _Ever_ ," repeated Ceallach. Except there seemed to be a weight of certainty in that word which belied his apparent age.

"So," Foggy waggled two fingers back and forth, "Is this an I-know-you-know-that-I-know deal?"

Tiarnaigh gave it some thought. "Yup."

"Answer us this, at least," Karen said, grasping at straws. Literally. Some of her Long Island iced tea sloshed over. "Do you have a way to get home safely?"

"Oh yeah," the boys chorused.

Foggy was nearly aghast. "Wait a minute. We have a duty to the law. Don't we?"

Before Matt could spiral into a moral crisis, Tiarnaigh shrugged. "If you report us, they'll never see us anyway." The tacit implication was that their already precarious credibility with the authorities would take a nose-dive.

"You know like half this town is looking for you, right?" Foggy's volume was rising.

They blinked.

Ceallach opened his mouth, then deferred to his brother.

Tiarnaigh said, "They know what happens if they find us."

"No ransom," Ceallach added. "No need."

"That's not ominous," said Foggy. It was. It was very ominous.

" _You_ don't have anything to worry about," said Tiarnaigh, his tone edging towards a 'What's it to you, buster?'

"Thank you for the warning!" Ceallach said brightly. Wow, he truly was a little shit.

"How do you even know about ransom?" Karen pressed. "What are you watching?"

"That nature show where the bad guys steal dangered animals," said Ceallach. Like a little cherub.

"I knew about ransom at their age," Foggy contributed.

"What were you watching?" Matt was speaking to Foggy. The longer they spoke, the more reluctant he seemed to address the boys, though his focus narrowed on the pair .

Karen wasn't letting the kids slip the loopholes. "What does happen if you're found?"

"Endangered," said Tiarnaigh. "And this is getting nosy. Let's blow out. Lates."

"Hey," said Karen, but they were already turning to leave.

True to form, Ceallach looked over his shoulder and mimed a 'POOF' worthy of big glittery sprinkles and pink smoke.

"I think that was a threat, buddy," his brother murmured, counting out their generous tip. 

The adults couldn't very well crowd them, much less while they were handling money, without seeming like they were starting something. They were already garnering the odd look for staring.

The kids seemed to know that. With a wave, they were gone.

"It was the Captain America cartoon," Foggy answered Matt. "They kept stealing Bucky, even with the domino mask, which in retrospect was highly— wait! Wait. A sec-ond!" he cried. A little loudly. He hushed himself. "How did you know he's him!?" His Finger of J'Accuse swiveled to Karen.

"I've known for a while," said Karen blithely.

"You did? You did. How did I not know this?"

Karen deflected skillfully. "Dude. Do you smell that? Something smells off. More off than Josie's usual ambiance."

They turned to Matt.

Foggy said, "You've been quiet."

Matt continued to be quiet. He thought he heard the rumble of an animal... or an engine. But no footsteps. They'd produced footsteps inside the bar, the same way factories manufactured cans for perfectly edible food. To label it. Something pretending to need footsteps.

He sat up and sank down, indecisive. Were they far enough away that he could leave his friends unguarded?

Karen snorted. "Go do the thing," she urged. 

Foggy seconded the motion. "We'll be fine."

With that, Matt shrugged off his jacket, and took off.

They watched Daredevil vanish into the night. Foggy rolled his eyes as the cane rolled across the sidewalk. He darted outside to retrieve it. Maybe no one at all would notice that. "I can't believe you knew," he complained to Karen.

She shrugged at him. Being both a tad relieved that the identity porn had come to a close, they nursed their drinks, and kept their gazes trained on the window.

Matt returned ten minutes later.

They gaped. "You lost them?!" "Whoa."

Foggy's bad feeling about this was beginning to blossom into dread. "Was there a smell? Did you follow it?" He'd had too much creme de menthe in his drink to really pick up on it.

Wordlessly, Matt he jerked his head, signaling that they exit.

There was an awkward moment as all three tried to empty their wallets to leave a tip. (Josie wasn't even looking at them, she was that smug.) Then they were out in the brisk, clear night.

"The air," said Matt softly. "It smelled of death."

Foggy was stunned. "Wha? Are they actually zombies? Murdock!"

"Oh shit, man," Karen said. She switched places so the men would be between her and zombie hordes.

"Not them," Matt said thoughtfully. "It was on their clothes. On the jacket. The whole front of the jacket." When Tiarnaigh had rubbed it, the aroma had been refreshed. Though refreshing was probably not the term. "The tops of their shoes. The shoelaces? It got to the corner," he fortunately indicated the opposite corner, "and got stronger, then disappeared. Scents don't... do that."

"I am so freaked out right now, can you walk faster?" Foggy wittered.

"Get the car keys out," Karen urged. "You are literally the designated... You have one job, Nelson!"

"Oh cheezits, I'm the horror movie cliché." Foggy scrabbled for the keys. "I got them. My scream isn't even up to par. Matt, really? Kids that smell like...hey! What if they live at a funeral home? Explains the odd hours."

Matt said, "It was like a funeral home. Not the front doors." He tilted his head up, trying to recall what was not meant to dwell upon. "The back door."

"Is that a euphemism?" Karen said.

They fell silent.

It was not.

Not where the embalmed shared space with the living. Where the hearse backed up to let the fresh bodies in. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed that Téideach (or Taodach?) & Clonnach are not their actual names. Hah! The inaccuracy is intentional; it's like if the original were 'Blue' and picking 'Bugle' in homage. It's a fine balance between the Gaelic I do not know, and the in-story need to distance them from the known tale of the sons of Crom Dubh. Who were apparently bad nasty people ... if you believe the version from St. Patrick's side, who wanted to do away with those pagans. Who might not have been Crom Dubh at all, as I can only find the one account by Michael Mac of Ballycastle, Co. Mayo. The other accounts list an ogre by the name of Geodruisc or Deodruisc. Legends are squishy; tales moreso.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, apparently the former means "flat top hill" and the latter means "chimney", referring to physical geographic features. I have yet to find the full story of the hollow underneath the road (???) On the other hand, the setting of this legend, the sea spire at Dún Briste (80 m off Downpatrick Head near the same Ballycastle) recently became social-media famous. 
> 
> Tiarnaigh Carter and Ceallach Carter are so named with just enough appropriative American 'flair' to throw off their playdates' parents. Tiarnaigh is actually from a surname (Anglicized as Tierney), and means 'lord/master'. Ceallach could arise from a number of sources, including words for 'war/strife' and 'church'; the main definition was 'bright-headed.' There were a pile of runners-up, all equally compelling. (Yes, some were eliminated because I already had a wildly popular sprog named Thaddeus.) 

**Author's Note:**

> The kids in peril tag is more for adults fearing that kids might be in peril. Obviously stressful. The kids are not in peril. It's in the same vicinity as "If I was Gonna Haunt Someone, It Would Be You." I will say I know enough about Matt to know he's not his usual snappy self, because this bothers the Hell out of him.


End file.
